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Prologue
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"Do you remember when you first took your vows?" Robin leaned on his bow, a sturdy device of black oak almost as tall as he. "Were you sincere when you said the words that bound you to the Greenwood forever?"
Norbit smiled mysteriously, his carrot-coloured hair shining in the light of the brazier's dancing flame. “It was cold,” he said, breaking his smile, “very cold.”
The older man laughed. “I thought you liked the cold. The legendary 'Winterman of Boraelgrasp', famously exiled to the Far North for the 'unforgivable crime of adultery.'”
“Says the man responsible for the death of the prince-consort.” Robin was silent, giving the younger man a bitter, but equally sarcastic look. Norbit smiled before pulling a crusty piece of waste out of his nose. “How does a man go from being commander of the Albanese Bloodcloaks to ranger of the green?”
“Ah, a gestour now, are we?” Robin looked crossly at his watch mate, but he was not able to hold back a smile. When they had first been paired together after the death of Robin’s previous partner, Robin had been caustic. He did not much care for the young recruit at first, but the lad grew on him, partially due to his witty personality.
Norbit well knew it was hardly Robin’s decision to join the Order of the Green. After he had failed to protect Lord Alvin Windstorm, the old queen’s husband and prince-consort of Albion, the blame was placed upon Robin's shoulders, resulting in his being sent to serve out the remainder of his days as a slave to the forest. He was not the first to be sent to the greenwood for such crimes. Many of the order’s members were convicts, both petty and otherwise, who chose to join the rangers over the noose.
Norbit was one of the few who joined voluntarily. After spending over three years wandering the North he grew tired of the cold, despite having grown up in Boraelgrasp across the Northern Bite. They said that wintermen were bred to the north, becoming used to cold by age seven and loving the wretched thing by fourteen.
Norbit was tired of the cold.
Yet he didn’t expect her to follow him to Albion, into the trees of the Northwest Forest. Of course her malicious grace was nowhere near as intense as it was on the Gag Malak, the Unbreakable Ice and Roof of the World where he had once had the simultaneous pleasure and displeasure of sojourning, but this was different.
Something felt off.
Robin rubbed his hands together. “The Westford is darker than usual. I’ve never much cared for the dark.”
“I’d expect you’d be used to it by now, old man,” Norbit said with a sigh. “You’ve been here how long? Seven winters?”
“Eight,” corrected Robin. “Eight miserable years of darkness. I don’t even know why the forest was nicknamed the greenwood in the first place.”
Norbit shivered before moving closer to the brazier, which did very little to sate the bite of the frost. “As long as I have been here, never once has the sun shone upon the Westford."
“Don’t forget that you have only been here for four full moons. But I will not denounce you. Any sensible man knows that the sun rarely shines upon Albion. Tis’ as rare as decent Albanese cuisine.” The two of them laughed.
“Have you always been afraid of the dark, Robin? Are your cravenly ways the reason that you were relieved of your position amongst the captainship of the Albanese bloodcloaks?”
“You’ve caught me, lad. I surrender.” The older man made a silly-looking face, making him look rather clownish in the torchlight. During the day he may have had the reputation of being the most skilled archer in the Green, but all of the rangers of the order knew that, when it came to the dark, Robin was craven. “What is it that you fear, Norbit?”
“Albanese cuisine.” He shrugged as he felt the same sly smile overtake his face once more. “That and freezing my manhood off.”
Robin nodded solemnly. “Is that why you came south?”
“No,” he laughed, “I have family in Lordium.” It was only half a lie. He had never met his son before, but he felt uncannily attached to his offspring. Following the death of Alicia, he had heard that the young, nameless babe had been sent to live with her family. The red-haired youth smiled inside, remembering the time he had shared a bed with the woman. To this day, his time with Alicia was still the best. But then again, maybe the reason as to why he had such fond memories of her skill was the fact that she was his first.
“I still don’t understand,” said Robin, scratching his bald head. “Who could ever grow so offended as to banish a man for such an inane ‘crime’, especially in this day and age?”
“Lord Fortman, apparently. They’ve always said that the king of Boraelgrasp is a man of faith. Such proved to be quite true.” He grimaced, but displayed no signs of spite. For he felt none. He no longer held anything against the Lord of the North. Norbit himself was raised in a religious household after all and was taught to honour the One True God. He was sorry that he had sinned, yet he was still glad that he had spent so much time in the North as a result. It made him the man he was today. “After two miserable years of cold,” he continued, “I made my way to Neversummer in the Northern Cities and caught the first ship to Burrow. It was then when I came south and pledged my service to the ‘most valiant order of the green’.”
“Not so valiant anymore, I’m afraid,” corrected Robin. “It’s since become an idle ‘army’ of murderers, rapists, and thieves. Ever since the last Great War ended, there’s been a need to keep the degenerates in check.”
Norbit nodded, silently agreeing with the disgruntled officer. “They need to do something with ruffians like us, I suppose." It was intended to be a joke, an attempt to lighten the mood. Still, Robin’s sombre expression did not change. For the next few seconds, everything was silent.
The Order of the Green was once responsible for defending the Northwest Forest and the rest of Albion from "forces of darkness", in an age where warlocks reportedly made the forest their home, conjuring foul things from their towers. There were even tales of how dragons nested in the wood, but the ones who conjured up these wild tales were known to smoke many foul things such as opium and the greenweed. Even the stories about the warlocks had since faded into the realm of fantasy. Still, there many that still believed in the myths. There was an uncanny presence of ruined towers scattered throughout the forest, believed to be left over from the age when druids wandered the land and waged war with the daemonic sorcerers of old. They were all crumbled now, burnt out husks of their former selves, with an exception of one, the so-called “Castle Daemontrance.”
Legends said that it was once home to the evil wizard called Fåol, known for his necromantic and daemonic sorcery. As the story went, he was defeated by a small group of rangers from the South. This legend served as the Order of the Green's creation tale.
The tower had since been converted to serve the order’s purposes, being restored and implemented with heavy defences and reinforced walls. Ever since its renaissance Castle Daemontrance burned down three times. The current structure was near five hundred years old and sturdier than any oak in the forest.
The village of Westford that surrounded the castle wasn’t as much a village as much as a collection of ramble shack huts, hovels, and dugouts that housed the men of the order. The main attraction however was the Old Greenwood Inn, a popular stop for travellers headed through the dangerous wood. Norbit suspected that it had the closest thing to decent Albanese cuisine.
“Nothing ever happens here,” Norbit said, breaking the silence. “I wish we could be thwarting wizards, fighting dragons, or whatever it was we used to do.” He sneezed a sneez loud enough to wake the entire Westford.
The old man laughed. “Do you actually believe in that supernatural nonesense? Sure I’ve heard tales of the evil that lies to the North, but it’s simply belian rubbish, from those old religious tales and medieval legends.”
Norbit nodded slightly. “Before ascending to the Gag Malak, my party and I encountered an abandoned mine. The evidence was all there. Long before the coming of the northmen it was home to a family of frost wyrms.”
Robin shrugged as to dismiss Norbit’s allegations. “Rubbish.”
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Norbit saw something, a black shape dashing through the trees. It dissapeared behind the cabin a few hundred yards away. Surprised, Robin turned his head and gave his friend a confused look. “What is it? It looks as though you've seen a ghost!”
“I think I saw something over by the Wagger’s shed.” Norbit did not shift his gaze.
“Are you sure?” the old bowman asked. “It could be the cold’s just gotten to your head.”
“No,” said Norbit, keeping his gaze rested upon the shed. “I'm certain I saw something.” He shivered in spite of himself.
“It was probably just an animal then,” Robin said, trying to talk some sense into the lad. “Or one of our lads come back from taking a piss in the woods.” Norbit shook his head. “Shall we go and have a look then?”
“No,” Norbit said, putting a hand up. “I’ll go. Command'l have our heads if they find out we abandoned our watch.”
“Suit yourself,” retorted Robin, shrugging. “I’ll hold down the fort. Just try not to hurt yourself.”
Norbit grabbed his short bow and slung it over his shoulder. He then grabbed his spear and cautiously made his way over to the shed, his boots crunching in the snow.
The snow was deep and difficult to tread through, but when he neared the shed and looked at the ground he saw tracks, small and light, but tracks nonetheless. Norbit’s suspicions were confirmed.
He walked around the shed, which belonged to Old Wagger, the former quartermaster of Castle Daemonstrance.
Norbit reached the door on the other side of the shack, finding it wide open.
It was a very drafty, one roomed building that had once served as a cache for weapons. The first thing Norbit noticed was the absence of fire in the hearth, striking him as odd. Wagger always kept a fire burning. He ventured deeper and found the old man sitting in his torn-up armchair, asleep. Seeing a bottle of spirits in his hands Norbit did not have to assume anything. He approached the old man, still retaining some of his skepticism.
The utter absence of the Wagger’s snoring confused Norbit. The old man had an infamous snore, especially while drunk. Upon reaching the old man he discovered that he wasn’t even holding the bottle at all! It was bound to his hand with something that appeared to be…tar? Norbit took a deep breath and gently rested his hand over the fat man’s chest. No heartbeat. Old Wagger wasn’t drunk. He was dead.
The sudden realization caused Norbit to jump backwards. He was used to this foul thing, death, wasn’t he? Yet there was something queer about this instance in particular, something that made him shiver.
He searched for any signs as to how he may have died. There, on the ground next to the ratty armchair, was a feather pillow, obviously used to suffocate the poor codger. Norbit figured he’d do the old man one final act of respect. He closed the Wagger's eyes and laid him down on the cot, bottle and all.
Norbit considered reporting this to Commander Magnan so he turned around as to head back out into the cold. After doing so he noticed a dark shape standing in the doorway. A black hood concealed his face and his long black robes gave no insight on the person’s physique.
Without a word they both drew their weapons, the man his quarterstaff and Norbit his spear.
Norbit charged, but the hooded man strafed to the left. The figure swung his staff, which Norbit was able to just barely dodge before regaining his fighting stance. In another attempt, Norbit rushed in and managed to hit man over the head with his own weapon. The other stumbled backwards a few feet, but was able to swiftly recover before raising his staff again.
As the man retreated back from the threshold of the shack, Norbit saw him reach for something, but he was not able to see what it was hurtled back into the room. Once the torch hit the wall to Norbit’s left, the realization had come too late.
In an instant, the shack was ablaze.
Smoke filled the room, obscuring the vision of both Norbit and the other man, who was stupid enough to re-enter the building despite his own fiery concoction. Norbit looked around, trying to find the door as he coughed. He could see the outline of the other who was doing so even more horrendously than Norbit was. His hood was down now, the face being that of an older man with a trimmed, white beard. Norbit took advantage of the situation after removing his own smouldering cloak and charged with his spear pointed toward his enemy who was distracted by his own fiery situation. He broke into a heavy run, impaling the man with his spear, bringing the point down, leaving it inside his victim’s chest as he continued running.
The encounter had lasted for only about thirty seconds, yet it had surprised Norbit so much that he could still barely comprehend what had just happened.
He rushed back to his post as fast as his legs could carry him, the deep December snow slowing him down. Once he finally reached the brazier he saw no sign of Robin. Norbit looked around in all directions until he saw his partner lying on the ground about twenty feet away. Norbit approached the body fearing the worst. Much to his relief the older man was still breathing. There was a large bruise on his head, obviously left over by some blunt object. Luckily, the gash didn’t seem fatal. Due to Robin’s significant distance from the brazier there had obviously been a struggle.
He dragged the body to an obscure dugout nearby and laid it on the empty bed. When Robin awoke he would have a nasty headache, if he even awoke at all.
Norbit broke into a run again, leaving the dugout and heading in the direction of the Westford and Castle Daemonstrance. By the time he reached the edge of one of the shantytowns surrounding Westford his legs were tired, but he kept on running nonetheless. The closest alarm bell was in Westford proper. Usually at night, if the Westford fell under attack the beacons would be lit, signalling a crisis. The sentries didn’t stand a chance tonight.
As he ran through the shantytown he began to notice some of the rangers fighting a handful of the hooded men. Most of his brothers did not even have the chance to change out of their nightclothes, let alone try to make a break for the alarm bell. As he came closer to the bell Norbit noticed that two of the men were pursuing him. He finally reached the alarm bell and managed to ring it a good four or five times before one of his assailants tackled him.
Norbit managed to pull himself back up and immediately punched the man in the face hard enough to render him unconscious.
The other figure pulled down his hood, revealing a man unlike any Norbit had ever seen. There, standing before him was a being that had the body of a man but the head of a red serpentine.
Blood dripped from his chin and lips as it grinned with its razor sharp fangs. As the beast approached him, Norbit’s first reaction was to reach for his spear, but he remembered that he had left it impaled in the old man’s body. He then reached for his bow. He was both shocked and terrified when he discovered that both the bow and the quiver of arrows gone, fallen off his back. The creature approached him, hissing.
“I have seen the Gag-Malak and experienced the terrors of the Far North,” Norbit said to himself, aloud. He leaned down and picked up a seemingly sturdy stick off of the ground. “I am not afraid.”
But he was afraid.
The stick proved useless as the beast knocked it from his hands. No sound came out of Norbit’s mouth as he attempted to scream, save for a hissing gag for air. The last thing Norbit saw before he finally closed his eyes was the tower of Daemontrance as it burned with a hellish inferno...
It should be written the same way as prose, really. Therefore, if what you're writing would be considered a run-on sentence if it was a short story, then you obviously need to break it up with some periods or what have you. Dig?
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